Infidel-ity"Not my fault. Not my fault..." She typed like a naughty schoolchild. How could she have known her life's work, some called it dogma, would catch on so well? That people would eschew effigies and kidnap the real man? Now she had a CEO in her basement. What to serve for dinner?

In Tulle Streets The dress was slightly rough on her skin as she raised her face to thewarmth of the setting sun, the soft ringing of sheep's bells in the pasturesbeyond. Not a lavish wedding, her dress was poplin rather than fine silk.Then war, and that glorious day the resistance prevailed. Not for long. Nowher soul-mate hangs from a lamp-post in their beloved Tulle streets and shewon't move forward. Instead, she retreats to their day, the sun, the dress.

Angie Gallop is a freelance writer who lives in the tiny town ofThessalon, located in Northern Ontario.

She was brewing hate, hot and dark, to pour into his morning mug. He sat reading his paper and crunching toast, scattering crumbs for her to tidy. She added a sprinkle of bile to the frothy milk top. He didn’t notice. I am bilious, she thought. It sounded Victorian. She pictured a ball gown and jewels, a dance, a D’arcy. Pursing lips she moved away from the sounds of his breakfast massacre, back into the kitchen where he thought she belonged. How did she end up housewived, jackknifed into someone’s suburban bliss? She spread bread with disdain, and slathered mayonnaise and spite over the perfect white squares. She sliced it four ways. Cheese and mayo were for Wednesdays. Wedded day slid into deaded day, dreaded day followed dead-end day. Every day, a day closer to death.

Sara Crowley's novel in progress - "Salted" - was shortlisted for the Faber Not Yet Published Award, and she is the winner of Waterstone's Bookseller Bursary. Her short fiction has been published in a wide variety of places including Pulp.Net, 3:AM, elimae, Dogzplot, flashquake, Litro, Dogmatika and FRiGG. She blogs at A Salted and appreciates you taking the time to read this.

I remember my dad taking me to the ball game. He always dressed up for those. We’d sit on wooden benches, me in my Dodgers shirt and him in his jacket and shirt, newly pressed with a polka dot bow tie. He wore slacks that I thought were sacred as I only ever saw him wear on Sundays and a little white sun shade hat that come rain or shine he would always wear. In this picture of tailored perfection he would add his own eccentricity and wear red baseball sneakers. He said they were comfortable. He smoked three cigars every game but during the week Dad never smoked.

Our games against the Yankees were always the best although we hardly ever won. We’d made four World Series in the late forties and early fifties and lost them all to the Yankees. My dad was distraught. I remember the second time, in 1953 when we lost. He locked himself in his den and didn’t come out for three days. The first words he said were “Next year kid.”

Next time was two years later. 1955. The Dodgers had a great season and won their division with ease. We had great hopes going into the World Series again to face our nemesis, the damned Yankees. We lost the first two games and it seemed we’d be the bridesmaid again. Then things began to click. We won three straight with the Duke of Flatbush, the great Duke Snider giving the Yankees hell. Dad puffed his way through his three cigars and screamed and hollered louder than most. The Yankees won game 6 and it was all set for the final showdown. Yankee Stadium. October 4 1955.

I was eleven years old and I’d never seen so many people in my life. We took the subway to 125th Street and started walking. Dad had checked his wallet at least ten times that afternoon to make certain he had the tickets and man, was he nervous. He began looking around at the thousands making their way to the game.

“We’re gonna be late,“ he said then grabbed my hand and started to run. I never knew Dad could run so fast. We made it with half an hour to go. Dad was sweating and blowing and started smoking before the game. He'd never done that before.

“This is our next year son,” he muttered. “This is it.”

He rocked in his seat all the way during the game, mulling over bad decisions, softly cussing so I couldn't hear. I did of course but I never let on. Johnny Podres shut the Yankees out. We won 2-0. Game over. Our first World Series!

Dad never left his seat. They said it was a heart attack brought on by the excitement but I guess he had nothing left to live for. A policeman took me home to my mom. She cried a lot. I told her we'd won the World Series but she still cried.

Brooklyn never won another Word Series although we came close and a few years later the Brooklyn Dodgers left for the sunshine of LA. It was never the same after that.

Nobody smokes at ball games anymore of course but I still carry three cigars in my pocket just for dad. I watch the Mets now, not every game though but when I do, I walk.

I always walk.

Alun Williams is Welsh and a Bukowski lover with a penchant for noir stories and films and is a member of Crittersbar, Zoetrope, and Scrawl, the writers asylum. Williams's credits include A twist of noir, Secret Attic, Twisted Tongue, Cambrensis, The Legendary, Bonfire, Darkest before Dawn and Write Side up among others.

Lydia Wants Us to Play TodayThe winter hinted at carcasses rustling under our feet; snow-blind, we invented new games in the parlor: Skin the Moose, Pollyanna Pucker, Shake Antler Fake, Scat Treason, Rag and Smack-down. The hearth sparkled but gave off little heat. Outside, the sheen from the frozen river invited the weakest of us. Tea cups. Hunters Beware.

Physiology LessonWhen the heart stops, it isn’t like a closed door. It’s more like a little man inside you, a hat of holes for the rain, imploring you in the atresia of assumed parts to squeeze, but not crush.

Kyle Hemmings lives and works in New Jersey. His work has been featured in Breadcrumb Sins, Vis a Tergo, Lacuna Journal, FourPaperLetters, and others.

I imagine my fish have the faces of some of the women I’ve loved. They are the faces of those I’ve caused pain to, faces that mock me from a jail-like tank while I stand there staring back at them.

I see Skipper has a tumor right above his tail. His swim is partial and labored. Toots is going blind. I really want him to know everything, to see what is going on outside in the world where everything is as damaged as he is.

What I have learned is that when you are born, you come from the water but later, when it is over, you’re lowered down in the dirt.

And I have learned that when a fish gets sick, you don’t flush him because fish suffer in sewer systems for hours, days or weeks. So when Toots bad eye faces me, I put Skipper the one with cancer in a plastic bag. I place him outside on the ground and pulverize him with my boot again and again . . .

Inside there is no giant shoe to stomp down on me when I grieve, so I collapse onto the bed. The fish swim to the edge of the glass to see if I want to talk but right now, I don't.

Timothy Gager is the author of eight books of fiction and poetry. He has had over 200 pieces published in the last three years.. He lives on www.timothygager.com.